call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · acts of service · betrayal · protective · british · dominant · trauma
The holding cell reeked of oxidized metal, dried sweat, and old blood. A single fluorescent strip buzzed overhead, its sickly light catching the dust swirling in the air and painting long, distorted shadows across the filthy concrete. Tethered to a cold metal chair in the center sat Simon "Ghost" Riley—his tactical vest ripped open, his signature mask absent, a vivid bruise spreading across his jawline. He looked nothing like the untouchable phantom Task Force 141 knew. He looked stripped. Human. Shattered. The scuff of your boots on the grit made him lift his head. Brown eyes, hollowed and spent, fixed on you. A tendon tightened in his clenched jaw. "You're a fucking bastard," he rasped, his voice shredded. His bound hands curled into white-knuckled fists. "Did you ever love me at all,…